Castaway Dreams
by Duckie Nicks
Summary: What really connects human beings is what makes us miserable. A series of vignettes featuring Horatio, Calleigh, Speed, Eric, Yelina, Alex with some Marisol, Ryan and Natalia. COMPLETED 5.27.
1. Mom

Some notes: This story is a series of vignettes, which popped into my head in October 2006. It came to me whole; I've just found the time to write it. I hope I've done my muse some justice.

Each chapter is divided into 6 sections with a total of 5 chapters. The order of the sections is: Horatio, Calleigh, Speed, Yelina, Eric, Alex. To be safe, spoilers up through season 5.

Thanks to crimelab.nl for their amazing website – all facts are taken from there. Quite simply without their character backgrounds section, I wouldn't have been able to write this story.

Naturally without my beta, Olly, there would be no fanfic to read. Thank you for putting up with me and helping me, even when it started to make you have dreams about Horatio. :duck:

As always, please review, dear reader.

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me. **_

**Castaway Dreams**

**Section One: Mom**

_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Tolstoy said that happiness is what gets families together. I think what really connects human beings is what makes us miserable." -- Alejandro González Iñárritu_

**  
Horatio**

The little bundle wearing a blue hat weighs six pounds exactly. Less than Horatio's birth weight of seven pounds, four ounces. And that's what he'll always be to her. Less than. Tiny Raymond has only been in this world for sixteen hours, but already he is a disappointment, and she's not quite sure why.

She'll never confess her feelings to her friends, will never be able to say, "I don't want my baby."

What kind of mother doesn't want her own child? The question repeats itself in her mind, but no matter how many times she asks, there is no answer, no easy response. Her only conclusion is that she must be a bad person. Beyond redemption.

When her friends had their babies, they always spoke with awe at how their hearts had grown, talked about how amazed they were that they could love something so much, so fully.

But she feels no such growth. Her heart is the same size it was before, and there is only room for her Horatio. Her little boy with the bright red hair is three, is her sole hope. And maybe he knows the truth about her, knows that she can't quite muster up the same love for her youngest son.

Because, even though it's only been sixteen hours, Horatio has been quiet and careful; he doesn't mind playing silently with his toys in the hospital room, doesn't mind that she hasn't been able to love him as she did before giving birth. Still a toddler, but already a man – never demanding, never questioning. He willingly puts Ray before himself.

Not Raymond.

He's all needs, won't give her an hour's peace and quiet, and she knows it comes with the territory of being a baby, but she can't help herself. As he cries, curls his little hands into fists, and screams for her breasts, she cannot feel any motherly concern for him, doesn't even register his sobs until a nurse holds the wriggling infant out to her. Reluctantly, she takes him, and as he latches onto her, suckles the life out of her, she can see the accusing look in his eyes – "You don't love me."

He knows the truth and so does she, but still he will defiantly try to gain her love for the rest of his life. Only Raymond doesn't understand: he is not Horatio, and no trying in the world can change that…

* * *

**Calleigh**

Mama is better at playing pretend than Daddy, the eight-year-old blonde thinks. Calleigh admires the way Mama can go for days at a time without messing up. Daddy can barely last for ten minutes.

He's a good prince when they play Sleeping Beauty; he always wakes her up with a peck to the forehead. But instead of Prince Charming and Princess Aurora living happily ever after, sometimes, well…most of the time, Prince Charming turns into a horsy who wants to be ridden.

It's always at this point that Calleigh stops, and in her precociousness, places her hands on her hips and tells Daddy that the Prince is not a horse.

"You sure, Lamb Chop?"

She frowns. He should know by now that _no one _knows more about fairy tales than she does.

"Yes. I am," she responds curtly.

"Really? Cause I think I remember a horse in there somewhere."

Calleigh says nothing, but shakes her head, her blonde braids whipping through the air around her.

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

He gives into her argument, even though Daddy's the bestest lawyer in the whole world, and he likes to tickle her before ending the game and telling her that he needs to do some work.

But Mama – she knows how to make believe. Calleigh thinks Mama would live in their fantasy world, where Daddy doesn't drink and get the belt, forever if she could. Calleigh likes this world, this cocoon, this little piece of heaven. The young girl always sits outside the kitchen when Mama has friends over, enjoys hearing how perfect life is, likes to pretend that the lie is real.

Every night, she prays that it will become true. Maybe tomorrow she'll wake up and Daddy won't get angry and Mama won't be sad and everyone will be safe and happy. She thinks if she colors in the lines, if she gets the A on the math test, if she is good and perfect and kind that she will no longer have to play pretend.

She still believes that. If she can identify the criminal, if she gets the bad guy, then just maybe….

* * *

**Speedle**

Did I let the neighbor's dog out today? Will they come back from their vacation with dog crap all over their white furniture? I'm bleeding, and I just bought this shirt. Dry cleaners are going to charge me extra.

I'm dying. I'm bleeding all over the place, and I'm thinking about the most random shit, Speedle thinks. If the dog does crap all over the place, it's their own damn fault; his neighbors should have trained the drooling mutt years ago.

Maybe I'll make it out, he reassures himself, focusing on what's at hand. Speedle can still register Horatio, his boss, his friend. Can't see him anymore, but knows he's there, can feel the soft cotton of the handkerchief blot the blood forming around his mouth.

He can remember when he got sick from eating too much Halloween candy and his mother had lovingly tended to him, had wiped his mouth in the same way. Her hands were much softer, Speedle thinks. But then, there's no one quite like your mother. No one can replace her – something Tim's mother had a hard time accepting.

She had worked to protect children, had tried to be a surrogate mother to them. But it hadn't always worked. Too many cases, not enough time or money. It was hard for her every time a child slipped through the cracks, when a teenager turned away from her proffered help and looked towards drugs or violence, when a child was returned to an abusive parent.

Now the retired social worker is losing her own son.

And that's the kicker, isn't it? He can deal with dying, but his mom – how will she deal with losing him? Speedle tries to fight it, tries to hold on, but in the end, it is the same as when he broke the lamp bouncing the basketball inside the house: sorry, Mom.

* * *

**Yelina**

Yelina loved it when Ray Jr. first called her "Mommy." Not the infantile mama, but a full, loud MOMMY. She loved being that, cherished that role. It was nice, the Colombian-born woman thought, to be more than a cop, a daughter, a friend, a wife.

Mommy – there was no sound sweeter to her ears. The word made her feel whole, complete, satisfied, and when her husband had started to come home less and less, it was the job of Mommy that kept her going.

Eventually, though, as all children do, Ray Junior grew up. Mommy was slowly being replaced with Mom, and Yelina hated it. Mom was cold, felt as though it were only one step away from "I don't need you anymore." She wasn't quite sure when the word had crept into Ray's vocabulary, just noticed it more and more as Mommy became obsolete. Now, the name he used to so affectionately cry out was only used when her son wanted something he knew he couldn't have.

It was ridiculous, she realized, to be upset over this. There were real problems in the world – things she dealt with every day: violence, drugs, corruption. And at some point, Ray was going to have to grow up and become a man; he couldn't be a baby forever. Yelina knew that she was being silly, but nonetheless… she hated Mom.

And now. "Mommy" is back, interspersed between her son's cries for Daddy. Over and over – "I want Daddy! No! I want Daddy, Mommy! Daddy!"

They're both on the living room floor, her back against the couch, his entire body huddled against her. His hands clutch at her, grabbing her hair, her shirt, any part of her he can. Her arms are wrapped around him in a fierce embrace. Despite her tears, she tries to offer him comfort. It's what a Mommy does.

Rocks him back and forth, kisses his forehead, his hair, tries to muster up the conviction to tell her baby that it will all be okay, but she cannot. Tries to calm him down, but there can be no relief for the heaviness, for the pain they both are feeling.

"Mommy! Bring back Daddy."

"I…I can't," the words clumsily come from her mouth.

"Yes," he sobs.

And this is their conversation for the next two hours. She wanted to be Mommy again, and now she is, but it's not the same. The name is there, but the meaning is gone. The sun no longer rises and sets at her will. She can't make everything better like a Mommy should be able to.

Still her son cries for Daddy, for his Mommy fix everything. Still he weeps for the time when his biggest concern was whether or not he'd be allowed to have dessert after dinner – she too cries for that time, now seemingly long gone. Never to return.

Yelina had worried about her son growing up too soon for her liking, but all in one night, Ray Junior has lost his innocence, has aged years right before her eyes. The childish name is back, but behind it is the knowledge that the world has fallen apart, has gone desperately awry. And no amount of Mommy's in the world can change that, unfortunately, they both think. Yelina had wanted to be Mommy again, and God has granted her wish, she knows, but now…now, she wishes she had never asked for this.

Eventually, Ray falls asleep at her side, his hands still gripping her tightly. She carries him to his bedroom, finally realizes that her son is no longer the baby he once was, both physically and emotionally. She's relieved of his weight as she gently lays him on his bed, but not relieved of the guilt she feels. Pulling the covers up over his prone body, she thinks she'll never be relieved of it. And maybe, that's how it should be…

This is her fault. This is what she wanted. The appropriate phrase nags at her, comes to her unbidden: be careful what you wish for.

* * *

**Eric**

She follows him everywhere, haunts him. Or maybe he's been the one tracing her footsteps.

The logistics don't matter.

He's never been Eric Delko. It's always Marisol's little brother – even in his own home. The dark-haired boy thinks bitterly that most people probably don't know his name; after all, his family rarely uses his name, preferring a harsh "you" or a snap of fingers to get his attention.

On particularly bad days, he lazily thinks it would be nice to have something that is his own. To have some part of life where he isn't constantly compared to a sibling. A place where what he does is what he does. No more, no less.

Sometimes when the seven-year-old boy crawls under his covers at night, unable to sleep, he imagines a world where there is no Mari. Behind his dark eyes, Eric can see himself being the one most praised – being the child who got the highest grades, the one who scored the last goal, the one who came first in his mother's eyes. And the thought never fails to calm him down, to lull him into a peaceful sleep.

But the solace is always short lived and becoming increasingly harder to find. Because to be ignored and looked over by coaches and teachers is one thing; by his family is another matter. His own parents see him as little more than a ghost.

It would be easier to ignore, Eric thinks, if there were big grievances – if they locked him in the basement and beat him while allowing her free reign of the house. But instead, it's little things that make him retire to the world behind his eyes. The worst moments are always the ones overlooked by everyone else: the fact that his father wakes Mari up with a kiss and he gets a pound on the door; the everyday reality where his mother gives his sister the best sandwich for lunch and he gets the day-old lunchmeat smashed between staling white bread.

The little boy knows better than to complain because commenting gets him nowhere. At best, he gets a conciliatory smile from his mother and the old adage to suck it up. There's nothing he can do, nothing his family will do, and so as the years have progressed, his mouth has permanently set itself into a frown. As time goes by, Eric begins to wonder if he will ever be the only child, if he will ever be the only thing that matters to his mother.

He knows it's wrong to want your sister dead. Wrong to let this jealousy, this reckless craving for individuality and singular love get in the way of family and duty. But the young boy is beyond caring; this is his wish, the only thing he longs for – to truly and finally be his mother's baby.

Besides, was it too much to ask of his parents – to want his mother to love him as she did her daughters? Was it really wrong for him to _need _her affection? Eric tries to rationalize – it's not like he's asking for a puppy or a new pair of shoes; all he really wants is five minutes in the spotlight instead of constantly being relegated to his sisters' shadows.

And so, with time passing by, the dark-haired child spends his nights underneath his blankets, hoping and praying for something to happen. If only his mother loved him more than anything. If only she weren't around. If only – like a poison invading his mind. It's all he can think of.

If only she were gone.

When the tests come back positive years later, when cancer becomes personal, part of their every day vocabulary, and ceases to be a foreign concept to the Delkos, Eric can only look down at his own hands. It's been a long time since he wished for something like this to happen.

Marisol is silently shedding tears, his father cursing in a mixture of Spanish and Russian under his breath. His mother is outwardly sobbing, and he knows the truth, then; he can hear the hollow words echoing in his head.

His hands are clean, but he imagines the blood. He knows what he's done.

* * *

**Alexx**

Janie is young, but she's not stupid (no matter what her brother says). Something has happened to her mother. The little girl isn't sure what's wrong, but something isn't right; the world feels out of balance. It's not every day that story time is interrupted to talk about strangers.

But Janie figures it must be bad. Really bad. Because her mom is super strong, and she works with dead people (well, not _with_ them – she finds out who killed them), helps catch criminals. And if her mother is this upset, if she cannot prevent the slight hitch in her voice or the tears from forming in her eyes, then whatever has happened must be unimaginably terrible.

The curly-haired daughter says nothing, doesn't ask questions. She doesn't think for a second her parents will tell her anything anyway. And when her annoying brother makes a peep during the tense dinner, asks what's the matter, the dark look exchanged between the adults is answer enough.

Bryan repeats the question, but still no response from either parent. Just the scattered sounds of their knives scraping against their ceramic plates. The query is raised one last time before their mother silences him with a look.

And yet despite the unspoken warning – drop it – Janie is unable to stop thinking about what might have happened. The worry gnaws at her stomach, isn't soothed away by the nightly routine of fairy tales and kisses.

She lays there in the dark, her mind racing at the possibilities. None of them seem very realistic.

For a brief moment, the tired youngster gives up, kicks her blankets off her small body. The night is inexplicably warm, and she rolls over in agitation. But for all of her tossing and turning in the vain hope of cooling off, Janie can already feel the thin layer of sweat forming on her brow. Too hot to fall asleep now, she decides to get a glass of water.

Her feet pad quietly on the carpet, and with as much stealth as she can muster, the girl slips out of her door. She holds her breath; it's silly she knows, but the last thing Janie wants it to get caught, to get in trouble for sneaking out of her room.

She tiptoes down the steps. Her small feet shuffle around on the wooden planks, carefully avoiding the parts of the stairs that creak. Triumphantly, Janie reaches the landing, and her lips curl up in a smile.

The toothy grin doesn't last, however, when she realizes she isn't alone; her parents' voices filter into the hallway where she stands frozen. It's wrong, she knows, to eavesdrop, but the temptation is too great.

She creeps toward the doorway and crouches down, the hem of her nightgown dusting the floor.

"Alexx, he could have killed you," the little girl can hear her father say. There's a long silence before her mother offers any response.

"You don't think I know that? You don't think I know _exactly_ what could – "

There's a slight scuffle as a chair is pushed back, rubs against the floor. And though Janie is straining to hear, she's pretty sure her mother is crying now, the small whimper and repetitive sniffles impossible to miss.

Her dad whispers something, but the daughter can't quite make out the words. A few more minutes pass before she hears her mother's voice again.

"He's dead. I checked myself. And if he wasn't…" There's a dangerous edge to the familiar tones. "I promise you – I will _never _let _anyone_ take me away from you and the kids."

Janie moves away from the door then, her mind on overload. She scrambles back up the steps, this time not caring if she hits a creaking stair.

As she crawls back into bed, huddles under the covers, she thinks that she should be relieved at her mother's words. Mommy wasn't going anywhere.

But up until that point, it had never crossed the little girl's mind that her mother _could _leave them. She'd known that death was real, that it existed, but…up until tonight, dying wasn't an option for her mother.

Her mom was strong, capable of overcoming anything. And now… Janie refuses to finish the thought. Perhaps if she doesn't say it out loud, doesn't think about it, it won't happen.

Acknowledged or not, the idea nags at her, cannot be ignored. She closes her eyes and drifts off into a fitful sleep, her dreams tainted with the color of crimson.

* * *

_End 1/5_


	2. Growing Pains

The structure is still the same as it was in chapter one. No spoilers in this chapter really, but there is some naughty language so cover your ears (eyes?) if you don't like it. Special thanks to crimelab.nl for being one of the most comprehensive CSI sites out there.

As always, nothing would be readable without my beta, Olly. Thank you for all your work. For ensuring that this fic had _verbs _(and for everything else), you've become absolutely irreplaceable to me.

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me.**_

**Castaway Dreams**

**Section Two: Growing Pains**

_By Duckie Nicks_

**Horatio**

For all of six months, Yelina was the embodiment of everything he wanted.

It wasn't just that she was attractive. Gorgeous women weren't scarce in Miami – though they all paled in comparison to her. The unruly erotic tangle of dark hair, the infinitely expressive hazel eyes, the sun-kissed olive skin that wrapped tautly around her curves… no, as beautiful as other women were, Horatio had only longed for her.

But the truth was – the truth is – she could have been the ugliest woman alive, and he still would have fallen in love with her. Horatio had always supposed it would be impossible to find a woman as driven by the same moral compass, who was kind, dedicated, honest, and compassionate. Yet, Yelina was all of those things.

There had been no slow realization, no awakening to his feelings. His heart hadn't magically skipped a beat; his breath had been as steady as it could ever be around her. And truth be told, the normally logical man had no idea how this came to be. Horatio had met her, and in that brief introduction, as his eyes met hers, he had known. But he had said nothing because the CSI didn't think it was appropriate to date a co-worker.

Obviously his brother hadn't held the same beliefs.

It had taken six months for Horatio to accept that he couldn't live without her and didn't want to try, and then only a split second to know he would have to.

On that fateful day, the redhead had gone for a walk on the beach to clear his head, had needed the sound and smell of the surf to ease the horrible images of the day from his mind. He hadn't expected – or wanted – to see Raymond walking hand in hand with Yelina.

Kissing her.

The place that was usually so serene now made him feel uneasy – as though he were suffocating. And as the _couple_ hadn't seen him (nor did he want to be seen), Horatio quickly left, his feet trudging unevenly on the sand.

Half a year to get this far and the rest of his life to try and forget his feelings.

Horatio was never sure exactly when they met, but in the end, he didn't think it mattered. Raymond had fallen in love with her, and she had obviously felt the same way, and that was enough. The Colombian loved his brother, and that fact would prevent a relationship from ever happening. Even if it made Horatio completely miserable in the process.

There had been no consideration given to confessing his feelings. He wanted her, but the redhead couldn't put her in the position of choosing. And more than that, there was his brother to think of.

Were they destined to always compete for affection? Or, rather, Horatio thought, was he to spend his life trying to make up for their mother's choices? He didn't want to fight, didn't want to make Yelina choose. Didn't want to hurt Ray by once again receiving the love that should have been for his brother.

And in the years after, when Ray died, even when there was no one to steal love from, the feeling had lingered on. His sister-in-law had practically offered herself up to him, but he kept his distance.

In those moments, when she had put everything on the line and he had rejected her, her hazel eyes became suspiciously bright. And behind the brownish tinge of anger and hurt were the sparks of disbelief. The curly-haired woman thought he was crazy for not taking what he wanted more than anything.

Horatio had no defense for that. Had no explanation. Because there was no rationale in being the boy who had grown up being told he deserved the world and ending up the man who felt he had earned nothing. Deserved nothing.

Perhaps the fact the feeling had survived should have been a clue to his brother's survival.

But it's easy to bury this particular idea because it's irrelevant now. He knew it the moment Ray had popped up in the back of the Hummer. And can feel it more than ever now as he walks his sister-in-law out to the tarmac.

It doesn't matter why he didn't act on his feelings, Horatio knows. It doesn't matter that he's felt beholden to Raymond, much to his detriment, for as long as he can remember. All reasoning and logic is moot because the only thing that matters, the only truth Horatio knows is this: Yelina is Ray's.

And, standing between the two brothers, between her brother-in-law and her husband, Miami and Rio, Yelina knows it as well, the annoyed acceptance setting into her face.

She wants a reason to stay, he thinks. She wants him to stop this, but Horatio is the one who has set this plan in motion. He won't ask her to make a choice. He won't let her stay in Miami.

And the tears forming in her eyes are surely being mirrored in his own.

This is the end of their innuendo, of what might have been.

This may be the last time they see each other ever. And it's the realization of future lonely nights and loss, he knows, that makes her bridge the gap between their bodies. Drives her to break the unspoken rule about touching one another.

The pads of her fingers dig into his back, embracing him fiercely. His own hands stay where they are, crushed between their bodies. He does not return the hug – knows that if he does, he won't be able to force her on that plane.

Her soft curls tickle his jaw line as she presses her face into the collar of his shirt. Her lips gently brush against his warm unguarded skin.

It's not a kiss.

She has been, since the beginning, the instigator, the one to push him as far as he could go. But from this moment on, Horatio knows that time is over. Gone. Because he's forced her hand, has taken the choice away from her – and now, if he wants her to stay, if he wants to feel her lips press into any part of him, it's up to him to make that happen.

He doesn't and instead pushes her away with a few words – "You better go. Okay?"

As the redhead watches her walk up the airplane steps, he wishes that she'll be able to find a way to forgive him. And, more than that, as he looks up towards the sun, Horatio hopes that he can_ finally_ get over her.

That his feelings will disappear like a plane in the evening sky.

* * *

**Calleigh**

This is the first time she's broken the law.

Okay. Not the _first _time. But this isn't the same as accidentally getting high while digging a bullet out of solid cocaine. This is deliberate and willful and more than enough to get her fired. And perhaps the only thing that Calleigh thinks is worth noting is the fact that she doesn't care.

Or more precisely, her concern lies not with her profession – her livelihood, but with her father.

It should be easy to turn her back on him.

After her childhood and the terror he could make her family feel. After never being able to stop drinking and still having the gall to _lie _about it: "first drink I've had in six months" – she wryly thinks.

After she saw the blood on the car.

It should be simple, but it's not. She should be arresting him and condemning him, but she can't.

"Take another one." This is her advice, though it's clear he doesn't understand what the point is.

Not that it matters. Kenwall Duquesne never needed a reason to drink before, and he doesn't need one now.

His callous hands pluck the flask from his jacket. Chubby fingers struggle to open the container, and Calleigh turns away from the sight. Because even though this is what she wants him to do, the daughter doesn't wish to see this – can't bear to see her father dabble with the sour temptation once more.

She starts to walk away, her long blonde hair swaying, the straw strands tickling her back. And though the CSI is all too aware of the way the loose pavement crunches under her boots, it's still not enough to drown out the sound of scotch sloshing against the metal flask.

Perhaps it's the result of growing up with brothers who liked to torture ants with a magnifying glass – maybe it's just the whole natural attraction people seem to have to train wrecks, but Calleigh can't help but turn and look with a touch of morbid fascination. Watches the aging man take a long swig.

Her mouth turns into an even deeper frown. This is what she wanted him to do, but a ribbon of guilt begins to knot itself in her stomach nonetheless. Yet, it's still not enough for her to change her mind. Will not stop the lie from falling out of her mouth.

She steels herself for what she is about to do. Her normally vibrant green eyes darken and harden till they take on the same color of the metallic grey guns she works with every day.

"My father has come to turn himself in."

And though her boss obviously suspects something, Calleigh continues with the lie.

"My dad took a drink to calm his nerves before he came in. I witnessed it."

The words sound convincing enough, but the blonde is unable to look Horatio in the eyes. Between the man reeking of liquor and the friend who has always protected her, she realizes who she is supposed to side with on this.

But the redhead isn't her father and will never be, no matter how much she hero worships him. More than that, as much as the knot in her stomach is making her feel nauseous, it doesn't have quite the same tug as the binding, indestructible tie that links the woman to her father. Calleigh loves and respects Horatio, but…

This is her daddy.

And that thought gives her the strength to defiantly look her boss in the eye. Every line on his face seems to turn into a frown, but, she thinks, this is the norm for him since Speed died. There is no outburst, no anger from him – nothing to show his displeasure with her other than a calmly spoken, "You do realize that you're riding the line on this, right?"

It is, quite literally, the harshest thing he's ever said to her. She would rather he yell and scream; that's the sole kind of anger and response the southern girl has been equipped to handle since she was a child. She's not ready for this disquieting warning.

Horatio gently pulls her off the case, and it's then that Calleigh begins to wonder how long it will take for this fracture in their friendship to be repaired. It'll be a while, the blonde thinks, as she stalks down to the lab where her father's car is being processed.

She knows she should stop – that she should let the newbie do his job. The normally obedient woman is all too aware that she's disobeying orders. But Calleigh can't help it. Her hands are in her pockets, as requested, but she can't keep her hands off of this. Can't sit idly by and watch her father be prosecuted for this.

And long after they discover the truth, long after she's taken her father's keys and gone home, the guilt still gnaws at her. It has been years since Calleigh believed the world was black and white, good and evil. But even so… now the world feels more horribly confusing and ambiguous, devoid of color and contrast.

The CSI has broken the law, has lied to her friend, has ignored his orders. And while everything has changed, the only constant, terrible as it is, is the fact that Daddy is an alcoholic, that she can't save him, and, worst of all, she'll forgive him every time.

The sun sets that night in a blaze of reds and yellows, but for the first time, Calleigh, the one to always look on the bright side, is unable to see it. Beyond her darkened eyes, all she sees is eternal night and impasse.

* * *

**Speedle  
**

His body is warm to the touch still, but there is no question that Tim Speedle is dead. His friend and boss knows that he is gone; too much blood has been lost. And it's everywhere – caked on Horatio's face, shirt, and hands, spread in a large, tell-tale puddle on the floor, dried on Speed's back and chest.

Tim is dead. Only three words needed to express the unacceptable facts: there is no beat to the younger man's heart, no air in his lungs. The gasps, chokes, and coughs so prevalent in the air only moments before are now gone, just as his redheaded partner no longer urgently whispers and calls for him. Now there is only silence, a heavy emptiness filling the air, mixing with the tangled smell of blood and gunpowder.

A palpable stillness floods the room with nothing to pass the time but thoughts of regret and loss. It's not the first time Horatio has had to baby-sit a body. It's not even the first time the body's been someone he loves… loved? Still the redhead wants to leave, though he knows he can't and won't abandon Speed, no matter how tempting the childish desire to hide from this is.

Soon enough, back up will come – along with the reporters, by-standers, and IAB, and perhaps then the current quiet won't seem so bad. Maybe once the younger man is buried, any time with him, even these last minutes, will feel like a gift. But for now, there is only a dead body and the pervasive feeling of defeat.

* * *

**Yelina  
**

The smell of purple orchids blooming wafts into the room. A lazy midnight breeze makes the open window rattle back and forth ever so slightly. Rio has come to life, and a dull murmur, punctuated every so often by a distinctive word or shout, fills their heated bedroom.

Carnival is almost over; King Momo had received the key to the city, and soon the nights will calm once more. But until Lent starts, the _cariocas _(not to mention, the thousands of foreigners who had flocked to the city) party on fervently, determined to partake in as much debauchery as possible.

The brunette can hear samba music playing in the distance; drums are being pounded on rhythmically somewhere in the city, the exact location outside her line of sight. Looking out the bedroom window, all Yelina can see are people enjoying themselves. Even in the darkness, their clothes, spectacular hues of pinks and gold set with feathers and glitter, sparkle. A woman trips over the fishtailed hem of her skirt, but the accident is coupled with a high-pitched laugh. She, like many others, is drunk. Intoxicated but happy, and moments later, the stranger is swallowed by a small crowd of people.

Indeed, the summer celebration seems to have brought everyone out of their homes. And there was no use trying to escape it. Even in her own bed, Yelina couldn't ignore the sights and sounds. Tonight had been no different; trying to fall asleep had been impossible, and she had casually drifted over to the windows to watch the drama inherent in this celebration unfold.

But the middle-aged woman is all too aware that _Carnival_ isn't the cause of her insomnia. Of all the things that could keep her awake, the sound of her sleeping husband, snoring unevenly, is the one holding slumber at bay.

Yelina doesn't turn to look at him, then, even as he releases a loud snort into the air. Doesn't trust herself to look because, when Ray is asleep, she's almost able to forget what has happened in these past years – in the past few hours. If she pretends enough, she can almost believe that nothing has changed. At night, she is almost able to forgive him.

Almost.

And it's not for a lack of trying on either of their parts that they haven't moved on, she knows. He has explained and justified and broken down and apologized. Her husband has _cried_ for her forgiveness. But it's never been enough to extinguish her anger or her pain because every time she's tried to move on, some stubborn part of her refuses to let the past go.

They've been running, she thinks, on this cycle of anger and despair temporarily melting into hope, which never seems to last, for months now. Horatio had let her go so that they could be a family, so that they could go back to "normal" and be happy. Yelina is quite sure, though, that all they've been is completely miserable.

And it's ironic that this is the case because she's also sure that everyone in this house wants the same thing – the same elusive dream of being a family again. They all want to return to the time when there wasn't a huge cloud of betrayal over their heads, want to go back to the place where the three of them could get through dinner without an argument. It's been five years since any of that actually happened, but still, that's what they want.

To return to a time where they all confidently – _completely – _believed in each other's love.

Yelina knows that Ray thinks she's being unreasonable on some level. He has said as much – that she is obsessed with the past, unwilling to give him a second chance. And Ray Junior concurs with his father. Only in this case, her son is much less understanding.

Why her _baby_ could side with the man who had abandoned them had been a question she had had no answer for. She had been the one to raise their child alone, and yet that counted for nothing in Ray Junior's eyes. It was truly beyond her comprehension until one morning, while her husband was still asleep, her once-sweet boy had directly accused: "You can forgive _Stetler." _

Her ex's name was said with a particular vehemence, the words staccato and filled with disgust. "You can forgive _him. _Why can't you forgive Dad?"

Yelina didn't offer an answer. Didn't want to upset this delicate house of cards any further by saying that there was nothing more abusive or hurtful than leaving for five years under the pretense of death. In the end, she knew that she could forgive someone for a momentary lack of control, but not someone who deliberately and repeatedly betrayed her.

And, up until tonight, she had kept that knowledge to herself. It had happened only hours ago. Finally, after eight months, she had reached her breaking point. Yelina was more than tired of going around in circles with her husband, sick of all the back and forth. And he had, at last, pushed her to the limit.

By now the argument had become old hat – was well-known, well-covered territory for them: he wanted her forgiveness; she wanted an explanation that could satisfy her lingering doubts. Yelina had tried to give him hope that things would be okay. But, exhausted of reliving the same argument once a week, she could no longer do that.

Ray tried to explain once more. But it wasn't enough, would never be enough, and she told him so.

"Then why ask for an explanation at all," he demanded.

Her response was so quiet that it was almost inaudible. "Because…I want to believe you." And that was the truth – is the truth.

"But you don't."

"No."

"And you probably never will," her husband said dejectedly.

She avoided his hurt eyes and looked down at her shaking hands.

"You're gonna give up – just like that."

Her white teeth bit down on her full lips, trying to will away her burgeoning anger. Yelina knew that his words were supposed to invoke her stubborn side, the part of her that, in theory, would refuse to accept this failed marriage. And he wasn't completely wrong because it's been that part of her personality that had gotten her through the first eight months here.

But tonight, instead, with Ray traipsing over her more than legitimate feelings, he had pulled an invisible tripwire.

"No. Not _like that."_ She swallowed hard and shifted her gaze to him – glared into his dark eyes. He lacked the grace to look away. Though he had already taken so much from her, her husband wanted more, and, shifting gears, she gave it to him.

Her voice was calm, though her accent thick, betraying the underlying emotion. "You know…when you first died, I thought that Horatio would have to bury me also. That's how much I loved you."

He sighed. "I know."

"Sure." The word was filled with doubt and a harsh sarcasm. There was no room for interpretation; her meaning was clear – she didn't think he understood.

Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she licked her lips and continued. "For years, people told me to let you go – to move on, yes? And…"

She took a deep breath to finish the thought, but the words escaped his mouth before the truth had time to percolate on her tongue.

"So I guess they've finally gotten their wish. Is that it? You don't love me anymore?"

"I don't _know _you, Raymond!"

They both stood in the room in silence.

Finally, Yelina told him, "The man I married wouldn't have left."

"I had to."

Her teeth once more gnawed down on her lip. "No, you didn't," she countered.

"They were gonna throw me in jail!"

"Then you should have gone to jail or asked for my help! I would have done anything for you, Ray – destroyed evidence, committed perjury. I would have run away with you." She clenched her fists as the tears welled up in her eyes. "And the thing that gets me about that is – what a _waste _that would have been of my time and energy. Because clearly, you never loved me the way I did you."

"But I do love you."

"Yeah. Just not enough to tell me the truth, right? You chose to let me suffer for _five years. _You preferred to let me think that you were dead – let your _son_ think that you were dead – than go to prison."

Ray bowed his head in shame, then, and only ventured to raise his eyes to look at her after five minutes of silence. Perhaps, she thought, he had finally understood what he had done.

"I'm sorry," he told her.

She smiled sadly at him. "I know…it's just not enough."

And that was the end of the conversation. Yelina retreated to their bedroom, spent the rest of the evening sitting quietly by the window, watching all the people passing by with smiles plastered on their faces. The irony of it all hit her then. As the rest of the city was consumed by make up, music, and theatrics, the married couple had finally removed their masks, had revealed to one another who they now were.

Hours later – she wasn't sure how many – Ray came into their bedroom. She resolutely continued to look outside the window, didn't want to turn and face him.

"I thought you'd be in here packing."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly, with an air of melancholy. "As much as I would _love _to leave you right now, I'm not leaving without my son."

"Then I guess you're gonna be here for a while. Cause, in case you hadn't noticed, Ray Junior and I have been getting along pretty well."

Yelina turned around to look at him, stood up and moved closer to him. "Yeah. But…if there's one thing I have learned over the years, Ray, it's that you screw things up every chance you get. You're selfish and self-destructive, and it's only a matter of time before Ray Junior realizes that."

Her husband had no response, perhaps realizing the truth in the words, and he quickly got ready for bed.

And she has been perched by the same window since their fight.

Freedom is only feet away. Her fingertips grip the windowsill, and if she really wanted to escape, the flimsy mesh of the screen is hardly a barrier. It would be easy.

So easy to flee this mockery of a home. She could leave the house and disappear in the boisterous crowd, only to resurface back in Miami, where the rest of her family and friends are.

But doing so will mean losing the most important thing in her life – her son. It's almost assured that her husband will go back to his old ways; she's seen the look in his eyes. And leaving is tempting, but she is a mother, and running away means leaving Ray Junior here without a safety net. And God only knows what will happen then.

To run away now would, in the end, she knows, make her no better than Ray. Would make her just as irresponsible and selfish. Staying isn't what she wants really, but that goes part and parcel with being an adult. With being a _parent._

She looks down at the platinum wedding rings on her right hand. It's the most she's ever been able to part with them. And even now, as the wife gazes down at the visible tether, she can't find it in her heart to remove the silver-tinted bands. Maybe, Yelina realizes then, part of her just doesn't _want _to go, realizes that maybe, more so than ever, she is attached to her years of married life.

Perhaps there is a lone leopard ready and able to change its spots… maybe there isn't. But Yelina knows she can't leave if she wants to find out.

Her right thumb presses into the diamond on the ring, and the reality feels even more ironic to her now: she's with family, but completely alone. Freedom is only steps away, but she's never felt more imprisoned.

She is stuck.

* * *

**Eric  
**

His sneakers scuff on the pavement. And as he walks, Eric kicks a grey stone along the way. It's not particularly fun, but after spending all day in a classroom, the young boy is brimming with energy.

Usually after nine hours of reading and writing, the bored child would have soccer practice – something to put all of his excitement into. Only today's practice had been cancelled. And while most kids had taken the bus home, Eric wanted to walk and had purposely missed the big yellow bus.

It's against the rules, he knows, as he sets out on his path, to walk around Miami by himself. But the walk itself was straight, crossed no major intersections or highways, and was, he had decided earlier in the day, therefore safe. Besides, the direction he was heading also happened to lead directly to Marisol's school. And as he rarely had any time away from her, the young boy figured he'd run into her anyway.

And that's exactly what happens – though it's nothing how his young mind pictured the encounter going.

Shortly after passing the large yellow stucco high school, he spots her down the block. Three guys – bulky teenagers – are surrounding her. And even from across the street, Eric knows that something is wrong by the way she stands – her head focusing on her feet, her arms wrapping around her stomach protectively. The dark-haired boy can tell by the way her typically tight plait (which their older sisters have dubbed her "librarian look") is loose, strands of hair falling astray at the cross of each braid.

He approaches quietly – a tactic he's perfected through the years when he's stolen his sisters' diaries – to see what's going on, and half the words are easy enough to understand – show us your tits, stupid bitch, etc. The other half are mangled and battered Spanish, but Eric has no doubt that it's more of the same. His feet move more quickly now.

And Mari cries, then, not loud, not dramatically – just the quiet sounds of a will being broken, of shame bubbling to the surface with no other outlet that this. The noise only serves to increase the taunts, the teenagers realizing that their prey is giving up. Knowing this, his pace quickens.

He's only eleven years old, and though he knows what the end result will likely be, the younger brother knows that he has to protect her, defend his sister. Knows that if he just walks away and does nothing, he'll feel guilty for the rest of his life.

No one sees him approach the pack of teenagers. As one more insult leaves the teens' mouths, Eric screams loudly, deeply in a voice that is seemingly not his own, it's guttural, and jumps kicking and scratching onto two of the boys. Completely unready for the attack, the two fall to the ground with a thud, and the third boy takes off running too terrified to look back.

Among the torn jeans and scabbed palms and knees, Marisol reaches out for her brother's hand, as the two start to realize what's going on.

Grasping for her hand, Eric scrambles to his feet, and the siblings run as fast as they can. It's impossible to miss the shout – "You come back here again, and you're dead meat, brat!" – from behind them.

Still they don't dare to look back and keep running through people's yards. Houses and lawns whizzing by them in a whirl, their backpacks flopping behind them, they don't stop until they're a few blocks from home. She comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, and before the young woman has even had a chance to catch her breath, she turns to her brother angrily.

"What the hell were you doing, Eric?!"

His heart is pounding. Sweat beads on his forehead from exertion, and he's still too shocked by what has just happened, that his mind hasn't even begun to formulate a response. She asks him again.

"What were you doing? They could have really _hurt _you!"

The younger brother frowns. "I was trying to protect you, Mari!"

"Well don't," she snaps at him. "Things were fine until you showed up.

He goggles at her. His sister's lie is hardly convincing, doesn't reach her amber eyes. And though Eric has come to accept that girls are weird, to say the least, this takes the cake.

"Fine? Things were _not_ fine. They could have hurt _you. _What was I supposed to do?" Her only response is a sigh, and he slowly confesses, "I was just trying to protect you."

Her face softens at his words, and it hits him then that this is probably the first brotherly thing he's ever done for her.

"I'm your big sister," Marisol says with finality, as if that explains everything. "It's not your job to protect me…just drop it, okay? And don't tell Mom and Dad." She starts walking again towards the house, and Eric hurries to catch up to her.

"What did those guys want –"

"God, Eric! I said drop it!"

The tone of her voice is dangerous, rounded off with a thin, but hard, accent that only ever makes itself present when his sister is really, really angry. And even though he wants to know what happened, wants to hear every last detail, Eric knows better than to push her. She's a girl, sure, but that makes no difference when she's furious. Marisol isn't beyond hitting him, and pursuing this will only end with that result.

He stops following her and watches as she walks down the white sidewalk. It's an almost picturesque moment the way the neighbors' flowers stand proudly in the garden beds, the way the sun beams down onto the asphalt, the way the neighborhood seems so quiet and serene – save for the softly blowing wind and a stormy teenager stalking home.

And he stands there for what seems like an eternity, watches as her stiff form gets smaller and smaller until she takes a turn and disappears into their house. The younger brother knows he can't say anything, and he won't, but the scene still bothers him.

Eric sighs as his feet start off on the remaining journey, and in that moment, in the very first steps, he makes his decision: he will walk her home from school for the time being. He isn't foolish, knows that he might not be able to protect her. But, at the same time, he also knows – or at least has an idea of – how things will go if he pretends like nothing has happened.

It's a heavy burden, one he doesn't wish to carry – especially for someone he has been jealous of all his life. He feels so much older now, inexplicably so, and his shoulders slump under the weight of his backpack and the almost crushing guilt he has for not knowing that this was going on. For not knowing his _sister. _

His hand wraps around the brass doorknob, and he enters the house feeling like a completely different person. Marisol is sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework, her face remarkably calm. Blank even.

She never thanks him for doing something he knows she thinks isn't his duty, and Eric never asks for that. Because older or younger sibling is a distinction of no importance now, he feels. They are family, and he is a boy, going to be a man, and, after all the childish jealousy and hatred falls away, he is only left with a powerful sense of loyalty.

Of love for her.

It may not be his duty to take care of her, but there are no other options.

* * *

**Alexx  
**

She's been an adult since she was five, Alexx thinks. While other kids played hopscotch out in the alley down below, she was cleaning the house, making sure her brothers and sister had eaten breakfast, waking her parents up at random hours of the night to ensure that they got to their jobs on time – in short, even as child, she was a mother.

Too many kids, Alexx knew, crumpled under the immense weight of poverty, but somehow, the little girl with thick dark braids had found her calling through it. She was born to be a nurturer. And when she told her parents she was gonna be a doctor, even though Alexx was only twelve, they had instantly believed it. Knew that this was more than a childish fantasy.

And since that time, it was that dream, that promise of a future that had kept her going. Even when things got hard, this was her ray of light. Being an adult – all of the positive and negative aspects of life had been sweetened or easier to take, thanks to this last vestige of childhood.

But now… now that the cost of her dreams has reared its ugly head, she feels more grown up than ever before. It's been a whole twelve hours since she was held hostage, long since the body bag had shifted and moved in her van. Even the fire in the Everglades has been contained. The day has essentially ended, and she wants to return to normal, but that's easier said than done.

As of today, the dark-haired woman thinks, she is now truly an _adult. _The last burning embers of innocence have gone out, and Alexx no longer has the dream to nurture at all costs. She lies in bed and thinks how much she would like to just…leave it all behind.

She's loved being a medical examiner from the beginning, but the threat of death is too high a price to live your dreams like a wanton youth. And in that moment, she makes her decision: Alexx Woods needs some time off. It's a thought that allows her to fall asleep – if fitfully.

The next day, she calls in sick.

* * *

_End 2/5_

_Please remember to review! _


	3. Sickness

Same structure as before. Thanks to crimelab.nl for their amazing website. And once again, thanks to my beta for putting up with my constant freaking out. I really appreciate all the hard work you put into my chapters to make them better. I couldn't function without you.

As always, please review, dear reader.

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me. **_

**Castaway Dreams**

**Section Three: Sickness**

_By Duckie Nicks_

''_Tolstoy said that happiness is what gets families together. I think what really connects human beings is what makes us miserable.'' -- __Alejandro González Iñárritu_

* * *

**Horatio**

Here we go.

They are the words, uttered lightly – cavalier almost – he told her as he grabbed her soft, cool, pale hand in the hospital.

Here we go – the three words that define their inexplicable relationship. She's young, and he's not. Marisol is sick but gorgeous, while his health is fine, and yet, his face, lined with age and stress, belies that truth. She spends her days going through the vicious cycle of throwing up, taking medication, and getting high; he merely spreads the ever-present blood on his hands.

They are an odd pair, the kind of couple people stare at, probably even frown upon. But they work; she needs, and he gives. She doesn't want to die without experiencing life, and Horatio doesn't want that for her either.

He isn't what she expected – Horatio is aware of that fact. Marisol believes that someone with his job should be jaded, should want out of the job. And she thinks that their dating has in some way restored his faith. She believes that she's seeing a special side to him. The redhead doesn't have the heart to correct her.

The unfortunate reality is he only knows how to give, to protect. This is old hat for him, the same façade he always wears, an extension of it.

Horatio has heard through the grapevine that this is the first woman he's cared about since Yelina. And he's both amused and annoyed by the office gossip. The redhead likes control, likes to believe he can conceal his emotions at will. But alas, it seems there isn't a police officer who doesn't see him as the man in love with his brother's wife.

And the truth is, contrary to popular belief – the way he feels about Marisol is very different than how he thinks of his sister-in-law. This relationship is based on compassion, not desire.

He's had sex with Marisol, but it's devoid of passion; it's always careful, gentle, quiet. In the end, their relationship has the same appeal as wool socks on cold feet. It's comforting and comfortable. Safe.

And maybe that's why they can both enter into this marriage. The burden of commitment is lessened by the shared knowledge that she will die soon. The clock will keep on ticking, and their time together will last just long enough to outdo the newness of their relationship, he thinks. They both pretend that it's possible to ignore her sickness, but the disease is always there, undermining and fueling their relationship.

It's barely romantic, but at least she will have been loved the way she always wanted, and he will have had the opportunity, the man believes cynically, sarcastically, to play hero one more time. Horatio thinks that this is part of his penance – to attach himself to her only to lose her.

But only weeks after marrying her, it's not the cancer that gets her, but her association with _him_. And he understands then that redemption is out of the question.

The first thing he does when he arrives in Rio is visit the mammoth Christ the Redeemer statue. Located atop the Corcovado Mountain, the figure stands proud, the thick layer of soapstone glistening in the warm sunlight. It's early, and having opted to walk, Horatio has beaten the tourists. He'd easily been able to lose Eric, and finally, he is alone, able to think through the anger and guilt suffocating him.

The redhead is crouched down, resting on one knee. His breath is coming in quick spurts – the combination of thin air and adrenaline is an exciting one. He begins to pray.

_Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…_

The words come out in a fast mumble, a soft whisper in the mountain wind – over and over. He repeats the words, but still…the shadow of the statue looms over him.

_Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…_

To no effect. He's still in the darkness. And eventually, Horatio gives up – accepts what he is about to.

"Here we go," he says to no one in particular.

And he walks away.

* * *

**Calleigh**

The gun is cocked, each individual click crisp and dangerous. It's a sound she's memorized, obsessed over since earlier in the day. It's _that _gun.

Calleigh turns in recognition. But she doesn't understand – and in horror, her green eyes watch as John pulls the trigger.

She doesn't understand.

Her entire life has been about witnessing the proverbial train wreck. Childhood was learning to avoid the collision, adulthood about preventing one. And this was right in front of her, but she hadn't seen it. Even after the fact, the disbelief is still there. How could she have missed it? How could she have not _known?_

"I know how hard you work…"

Calleigh had seen the sad, haunted look in his grey eyes. She had known that he had obsessed over Ray Caine's death. Perhaps she had even realized he was on the edge. But… the blonde had no idea that _this_ would happen.

"And I would really love to be friends with you, John."

Part of her knows he would have seen through a lie. Even if she had kissed him and said that he was a great cop, it wouldn't have mattered. The truth was Hagen had never forgiven himself for not knowing his partner was a dirty cop, and he probably never would.

He had said that her words hurt him, but she knows that the right words were hardly strong enough to combat his gut-wrenching, all encompassing depression. John had been on the outside for years, had carried this guilt around, and it would be foolish to think anything she could have done would change that.

And yet, for all she knows, Calleigh still feels guilty.

But the blonde doesn't cry over him, refuses to do so. She understands that the rest of the crime lab thinks she's soft and warm and kind, but she's not a crier. It's another unwanted lesson from childhood: emotions are weapons others will use to hurt you, and rarely get you the result you want. Calleigh feels awful, responsible, but she won't give into her despair.

The tears remain unshed.

She continues on with her work, pays extra attention to the way the grooved metal in her hands jerks as she fires the gun at the target. But when the single drop of blood falls onto her sleeve, she can no longer ignore the overwhelming feeling of loss and guilt.

Looking up, she knows – the writing's on the wall, so to speak. A crimson smatter flecked with John's light brown hair and spongy gray chunks of brain are slowly drying, seeping into the ceiling.

Her first reaction is disbelief. How could a _crime lab _miss this? How had she not noticed it – now having seen the blood, she can smell a distinctly metallic undercurrent in the air.

She looks away and down at the gun in her hand. Calleigh's loved guns her whole life – respected them. But now, the warm metal lying flat on her palm feels only like a dead weight. She thinks she can't do this anymore, doesn't want to try either. The "bullet girl" is no longer fascinated, _intrigued _by the weapon.

"The right piece of evidence can make you a hero," she'd told Eric. "He just couldn't put it in context."

John hadn't figured out what the map meant. He was, in the end, she thinks, always one step behind. And she, on the other hand, has only ever felt ahead of the game. She's good at what she does – no, _great_ at it. Yet, she had clearly missed something – hadn't realized that the series of clicks from a Ruger meant more than just _her _life being in danger.

The mystery of it all had lingered on. And even when a person was good at the game, Calleigh thought, it was one that was impossible to win. The gun in her hands clunks unceremoniously onto the counter in front of her. For the first time ever, this is a game she is tired of playing.

* * *

**Speedle**

Timmy.

Her quivering lips open to utter his name, but her throat tightens, no sound comes, and she cannot speak. Alexx smiles apologetically at him because she is unable to do the one thing she likes to do for all of the people that come through. Heaven may not exist, death may not free the soul, but talking in this room seems necessary. She wants to console them, guide them through a procedure that shouldn't need to be performed.

But she is unable to do this for him.

Her white-gloved hand reaches out. She strokes his dark brown hair before raking it away from his forehead, as a mother would push back sweat-slicked hair from a fevered brow. The words unsaid – I'm sorry, baby. And she begins.

Surrogate mother and son once joked that she could undress a dead man in her sleep. In the back of her mind, a thought whispers – if he were alive, Tim would be appreciative of this fact now. And indeed, through an almost dream-like haze, she undresses him. Only the slight faltering over buttons and boots betrays her.

Her hand grabs the shower head, turns the water on. Blood-tinged liquid falls off his body in rivulets, and she pauses, looks at him when he is finally clean. With only the deep, visible hole in his chest to remind her otherwise, Alexx thinks – is almost able to believe – that he is sleeping. The normally strong-headed and logical woman can almost pretend that the unnatural ivory pallor of his skin is the result of the flu. Caused by something – _anything _but this.

But reality can no longer be ignored when she picks up the scalpel. The sharp edge digs into his cool flesh, and she drags the blade downwards, all the while using her other hand to soothe the cut, broken skin. It's another useless apology.

When her job is done, she writes down her findings, including the cause of death. But it provides her little comfort. Alexx knows the how, but not the why. Y – the shape of the incision on her baby's chest.

A room that is usually filled with her chatter is left silent. Only the why echoes through out the building.

* * *

**Yelina**

Two blue lines on a piece of plastic.

It took ten minutes to confirm what she already knows: Ray never could rest in peace.

Pregnant. The word feels harsh and foreign to her. It hadn't even crossed her mind that the overall sick feeling, coupled with regular vomiting, might be anything more than the flu. With her only child now a teenager, pregnancy is a state of being she is unfamiliar with. And as Ray Junior's attitude as of late had been less than pleasant, the memories she had of swollen ankles and tiny fingers had a greater feeling of antiquity.

Of course, not everything felt so old. Years had passed, but once again, her husband had left her. Only there would be no reunion this time.

And now, she gets to start all over again. The thought alone is enough to make her feel nauseous; she doesn't need a baby for that. Yelina gets to rebuild her life, and instead of a scared little boy, this time, she's left with a teenager who blames her. Once she tells him that she's pregnant, the mother knows, he'll hate her.

Because he's not a child anymore, is no longer fooled by storks with babies dangling from their beaks. "I'm pregnant." Two words will forcefully end the ceasefire she has so desperately worked towards. "I'm pregnant," and Ray Junior will know the horrible truth: for all of her protestations and anger, his mother could be swayed, was a hypocrite.

The baby inside of her is unwanted proof that her husband wasn't the only one addicted. Raymond couldn't resist the allure of drugs and darkness, and though she hates to know that it's true, Yelina couldn't resist nurturing, loving Ray's lost soul when he needed it. And the situation she had wanted – needed – to be black and white is now undoubtedly gray.

If her husband were alive, she thinks, she would kill him right about now. He's left her with two children to raise by herself. And the curly-haired woman is sure that no man will want her again – if not for the two babies, then for the uncountable amounts of baggage she carries around. Perhaps it's selfish to think like this, but her mind cannot avoid going down this road. It's easier to think about how, in the very least, Horatio will never touch her (which is perhaps the only reason Ray never wanted to let her go) than it is to imagine her life in a year.

She looks down at the plastic applicator. Two strikes against her, but she's already out.

With a slap against the wastebasket, the test is thrown into the trashcan, and Yelina allows herself to sink onto the cold bathroom tile.

While other women would be joyous over the result, the Colombian turns her attention to her husband's obvious absence. She should play the part of grieving widow, but all she can imagine are the ways Raymond might have suffered in his last days. She hopes it hurt – as ugly as she knows that is – hopes that his final hours were just a taste of the retribution he has earned.

Her jaw is clenched firmly; her green eyes are dark – almost brown looking, as she lets the anger wash over her. But even as she envisions broken bones and blood matting in Ray's dark hair, something inside of her stirs. She hates the asshole, but just as the child growing in her womb proves, it's never been that simple.

_If only._

* * *

**Eric**_  
_

He neatly stacks the white rolling papers at the edge of the glass coffee table. It's part of the routine he's created for himself – for Marisol. From the corner of his dark eyes, he can see his sister, huddled and shivering, on the couch watching him.

His strong hands reach into his coat pocket, groping the leather pouch until Eric finds what he's looking for. He pulls the plastic sandwich bag out, and, he idly thinks, as he places it onto the table, that if the cops had caught him, they'd have arrested him for distribution.

Methodically, he takes one of the rolling papers and sprinkles the brownish leaves onto it. His fat fingers go to work, twisting the paper into a thin joint. And it's all proof of two facts: Marisol's treatment isn't working; the marijuana is barely doing its job.

Taking a look at her, Eric's not sure how much longer his sister – once bright and vivacious – will be alive.

Still, he thinks, it's better than nothing, as he watches her light up the cigarette. The man had always thought that he would rather his family members die quickly and painlessly than to linger on, suffering. Yet, here she is, barely able to eat anything even after smoking joint after joint…

Marisol is dying slowly. This is also an inescapable fact: she is dying, fading out with a whimper. The fire inside of her is now barely at a smolder, and Eric hates it – hates himself even more because he would rather watch her suffer than bury her.

It's an ironic twist, considering the brother had wanted something like this to happen when he was younger. He wanted to be the strong one, wanted her to be the one in need, the weaker of the two. And now that this is the case, Eric would do just about anything to go back to the way things were.

Wants to return to Marisol being the perfect older sister, instead of what she is to him right now – little more than a disease. He thinks he's never been a good brother, but this is as bad as it gets. Clinging on to her, or rather, what's left of her.

Keeping her here in this state just so he won't have to say goodbye is incredibly selfish. Like some silly game, he wants to believe that by buying her an illegal lifeline, they are even for this, for all he is putting her through. But he knows that's not the case.

Never been even with Speed – never will be even with her. Another fact of life.

IAB is sniffing around, and Eric knows that eventually he will be caught. Keeping her alive is a heavy burden, one that constantly threatens to overwhelm him. But until that moment, when he gets caught or gives up (whichever happens first), all he can do – all he will _allow _himself to do – is sit with Marisol and watch both of their lives slowly extinguish.

* * *

**Alexx**

The house is silent, save for the occasional crackle of hardwood expanding and shuffling in the oppressive Miami sun. Her husband is at work, the kids at school, and now Alexx has nothing to do. It's only eleven am, but usually, at this hour, she's elbow deep in intestines and intrigue.

There is nothing to do. Her body seems to thrum under that knowledge, desperate to do something. As she sits at the kitchen table, plates covered in sticky syrup and soggy pancakes call out to be scrubbed. But she is unwilling to move, her seat vacant only for a few minutes when she got up to unplug the phone.

Even though only a few hours had passed since dawn had broken, her colleagues had felt it necessary to bombard her with calls. First Horatio, and then Calleigh and shortly thereafter, all the words of concern and condolence had melded into one long conversation, their voices indistinct but ever present like gnats.

The medical examiner knows why they're calling; she's not ignorant to her own behavior, nor to the actions of her friends. Everyone on the day shift understands how she works: her body is supremely strong, her mind stubborn, and Alexx Woods doesn't do sick days. Her colleagues know, just as she does, that she only takes this kind of time off when the darkness associated with the job threatens to overpower her.

It's an ironic twist in events, given that her first sick day ever was taken out of the desire to spend more time with the man of her dreams. Alexx had been the most intense resident of her group, and she had heard more than once the various whispers that she needed to get laid.

Her husband had certainly provided that, but more than anything, with his unkempt afro and slight beer belly, he had given her a freedom – momentary glimpses of what it meant to be carefree – that she had never known before. Sure, they were adults, and he had demanded at times responsibility and maturity from her, but he had also allowed her to _relax._ To think of herself for a change.

And so, when faced with spending the day in bed with her soul mate (a word the doctor typically hated and rolled her eyes at but knew, in this case, to be true) or going to work, she had chosen the sick day.

But lately in these last few years, that carefree attitude has all but disappeared. She no longer plays hookie. Sick days are taken, usually, because her life has been put in danger. And it worries the medical examiner because she loves her job, loves the people. But it cannot compete with her family.

Alexx wonders when the time will come when she has to give up what she has spent her whole life working towards. Her almond-shaped eyes dart over to the clock hanging near the kitchen table. The hands are on twelve, but she begins to understand that the time is now.

* * *

_End 3/5_


	4. Death

Notes: Same structure as before. No real spoilers that I can think of. Once again, a special thanks to Crimelab.nl and to my beta. Without either, I could not have been able to write this fic. Thank you, Olly, for all your hard work. As always, reviews are love. Enjoy!

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue me. **_

**Castaway Dreams**

**Section Four: Death**

_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Tolstoy said that happiness is what gets families together. I think what really connects human beings is what makes us miserable." -- __Alejandro González Iñárritu_

* * *

**Horatio**

The gun shakes in the man's hands, and Horatio recognizes, understands, the look of desperation and despair in Ethan's eyes. It's a look that is, the redhead thinks, mirrored in his own blue eyes.

"You don't know what it's like to lose everything."

But the lieutenant knows differently – knows that by standing in front of an armed man with no way out, he is willingly walking towards death. Horatio is not someone with anything left to lose. Other than the last remaining veneer of life.

"Ethan…" He stops momentarily, his voice laced with the unbearable sadness that has cloyed at him for months. "Ethan, I do. I've lost everything."

There is no lie in that, unfortunately, and the man understands that Horatio isn't exaggerating, and the gunman is arrested. The situation is resolved neatly, the kind of unmemorable case that passes through the CSI labs every day. But this does not leave Horatio's mind easily. The never before uttered truth doesn't go away, doesn't disappear into the recesses of the redhead's mind, and at the end of the day, Horatio is unable to let it go.

He had let his guard down, the lieutenant thinks later. And now, having been given a tiny taste of truth, having allowed the world to ever so briefly see his face – to see _him_, Horatio finds that he cannot keep up appearances. He cannot deny what he knows to be true in his heart: he has lost everything.

His family tree is splintered, dying, almost gone, and a mental list of relatives seems to be etched in blood. Mother, brother, and wife all murdered out of the same senseless violence he has fought against for three decades to no avail. His ability to lose has been seemingly endless; each time he thinks he's reached a new low, someone else he loves has died. And similarly, every time Horatio believes he has exacted justice, something else goes terribly wrong.

It had happened in New York, Miami, and Rio too. His mind narrowed onto the goal of finding the murderers, bringing them to justice, and that was supposed to make things better. But life has rarely modeled itself after his plans. Even when he'd had his revenge, even when he'd achieved what he set out to do, the world hadn't magically righted itself. In the end, Horatio was – is – still the man without a mother, brother, or wife. And he's concluded, finally, that maybe he's not the right warrior for this task; after all, his own father was… murdered. By him.

Horatio is surrounded by death, by the never-ending blood pool that threatens to drown him. And the redhead is more than aware that he's not alone in this last part. The two family members he has left are bound to the same fate as he, and though alive, they don't seem to be much better off.

Yelina is different – he fears irreparably so. Since his trip to Brazil, the brother-in-law has noticed that she is quieter, colder. Her normally verdant eyes have dulled, never seemingly in the moment. Even when he stands mere feet away from her, Horatio feels as though she is still in Brazil. He knows something is wrong, can tell in the way she doesn't like to make eye contact anymore, but she tells him nothing.

It makes him uncomfortable to know that she is keeping something from him. A year has passed, but that time apart has whittled away at their friendship, their _bond_. Yelina holds the cards close to her chest now, refuses to let him in, and though the truth seems to be just beneath the surface, he can't put his finger on it. The answer remains elusive.

And just as Yelina has slipped away from him, so too seems the fortune for his nephew. Ray Junior is falling into the same madness that killed his namesake. What was supposed to be a happy ending for his brother and family has quickly devolved into chaos. Horatio likes to fix things, but this, he has accepted, may be beyond his control.

Control is, he's decided, all but gone from him now. The lieutenant had once believed that science coupled with guilt had rooted him, had made him, in the end, sharper. Better. But maybe that was never the case. Perhaps it had all been a lie to keep him going, to help him avoid the one truth he has come to know: it's all his fault.

Because, as he knows that patterns exist even in chaos, that nothing is truly random, the only link he can find in the disarray and destruction is himself. Horatio isn't so selfish as to believe he is the _sole _cause of their shared misery; of course, his family has had a hand in it too. But without a doubt, he knows he could have done something: come home sooner to save his mother, fought harder to protect his little brother, never let his sister-in-law and nephew out of his sight, pushed Marisol away.

He could have done more, done _something_ to save his family. And so… he really has lost everything, he believes. But worse than that, Horatio finally understands – he never deserved to have them in his life in the first place.

* * *

**Calleigh**

No one says anything, but the confused look every CSI in the building has adorned says it all. The people who don't know her at all whisper when she's not in sight that they knew all along nobody could be _that_ chipper. The ones who know her keep quiet, understand that this is more than John. This is three decades of trying to outrun the simple reality: she can't fix everything.

Calleigh took some time off, had removed her name from the on-call board, thinking that it would help. And Horatio had given her a small smile then. He didn't push or pry. The redhead didn't insist she see the shrink. She told him she needed a break, and his lips had turned up, his blue eyes bright and sad in understanding.

She'd been grateful then – that he hadn't forced her to… do anything. Her boss had given her space, and when she'd left his office, Calleigh had felt relieved. She could – and would – handle this her own way. She would heal herself. But now, she's not so sure that's what has happened.

In childhood, the blonde absolutely believed her actions had an effect on her friends and family. If she behaved, then maybe they would too. Maybe things would be normal. And perhaps, she realizes now, she had never really grown out of that until Hagen had pulled the trigger.

The suicide, Calleigh has accepted, was the final blow to an already dying system.

And the question becomes: what now? What does she do? What does she believe? Her body feels unbearably light; everybody else's burdens are finally lifted off her shoulders.

She'd taken the time off to heal, but she feels more horribly fractured and broken than before. The ballistics expert would rather her melancholy be the result of losing John, but this sadness comes from a deeper wound.

Even after she returns to work, things are… not right. And that too she wishes she could blame on the outside world. But the change is within her, one that will not fix itself.

She spends her time solving crimes and trying to give answers to the victims' families, but one question refuses to be answered, plays on endless repeat.

What now?

* * *

**Speedle**

Clouds, misty and gray, stretch threateningly over Miami. Bright flashes of blue and red burst from the lights on each car surrounding the hearse. And while everyone else is inside, hiding from the oppressive storm, it seems like every police officer in Miami-Dade remains out, their uniforms and black clothes heavy with rain.

Alexx, Calleigh, Horatio, Eric, Yelina, and even Stetler. All there but one. Except the colleague whose body is entombed in dark mahogany and an American flag. The team stands there shoulder to shoulder, but words go unsaid – even when the funeral ends. They dare not look away from the casket, even as the ground swallows it whole.

They are here, and maybe in a way, they understand, he is too – but each has come to accept Tim is gone. Their team is broken, missing a link. And each friend, each unspoken family member feels the loss keenly.

No one has the nerve to cry.

Their eyes are heavy with tears, but they dare not fall. It's a sentiment discouraged by the police force and one Speed wouldn't have wanted. The rain falls in an arrhythmic chaos for them, washing the city clean.

The casket reaches the bottom of the grave, and what once was is forever gone. And without that link in the chain, everyone's place feels off. Speed is dead, buried. His team changed forever, has morphed so much that to one another they are mere strangers.

But they do not cry; the tears do not fall.

* * *

**Yelina**

Her feet pad down the hallway, only briefly pausing at her son's open bedroom. Ray Junior's still out, she realizes, and mindlessly, Yelina starts to walk again, heading towards the kitchen.

Normally, her son's absence would cause more of a stir. But very little in the past few months could be considered routine – especially when it came to her son. He was angry with her and every so often, afraid of losing her. It was an awful combination of emotions (as if dealing with a teenager wasn't difficult enough). Some days, they'd go through the motions of arguing, and others, the house would be filled with a palpable silence. The only constant was that on any given day, Yelina wasn't sure what she'd encounter.

Other than the inescapable knowledge that her home was – is – torn apart.

Last night had been one of those nights she'd had to desperately pray that the cops wouldn't come. They'd yelled and screamed and fought over every last detail of his childhood until he bolted out the door.

She didn't chase after him. Didn't call the police. The mother hadn't done anything at all. Because the curly-haired woman knew in her heart something that eventually _anyone_ would see: nothing she'd done up to this point had had its intended effect. She had tried to be a good mother, but in the end, what had it gotten her?

Nothing. No love or loyalty. Not even the slightest hint of compassion.

Yelina had tried to let him grow up, had tried to set him free to avoid being the kind of mother she hated. And when her sweet boy so willingly began to throw his innocence away, she had tried to cling onto those small reminders of childhood, had tried to save him.

But all of her actions had been futile. Pointless – unless to direct her to some greater truth she had never wanted to see: she is a bad mother.

Within three days, when she wakes up in the sticky warmth of blood, it's a conclusion she can no longer ignore. She _is _a horrible mother, a failure – the crimson on her hands inescapable proof. She is a bad mother – a statement she knows to be true with every fiber of her being. A parent of two souls seemingly lost, if for different reasons, permanently.

And Yelina doesn't know what she should have done differently. Her mind races for an answer, for a reason. Was it working when Ray was little? That extra cup of coffee she'd had last week?

She needs an answer, something to silence the loud WHY coming from within. Because at least if she did something wrong, there is hope in making sense of this. At least then, she can focus, fixate, _obsess_ over that mistake for the rest of her life.

Yet for all her wondering, she has no silver bullet to her question. Her babies, her husband… they have all deserted her. Her family has fractured, crumpled around her feet, and she cannot understand why. There are no answers, and Yelina fears that there isn't any logical reason for any of it.

And that terrifies her – to have no protection against the darkness that surrounds her. She is on the edge of a cliff, she thinks, with not even luck on her side. Without anyone to guide her back.

* * *

**Eric**

Revenge is supposed to be sweet, Eric thinks, but this leaves him feeling cold. There should be some relief in kicking a man's head – he should feel_ something_. Even guilt or remorse would work. But at the end of the day, he feels empty.

The headstrong CSI had wanted this trip to Brazil to bring him closure or at least… the knowledge that justice had been done. Perhaps he accepts that that has happened: a murderer is dead, has been brutally, but fairly, taken out.

Riaz is gone, but, as Eric sits on the plane next to a silent Horatio, the younger man wonders if any good has come from this trip. Marisol is still dead, and nothing can change or will change that.

Leaning back in his seat, he closes his eyes and wonders: would Mari have wanted this?

And it's odd, Eric thinks, that this is the first time the question has popped into his head. Since the phone call, his thoughts have been caught in a whirl of emotions, his mind never relaxing for more than a minute.

Until now, he's been so focused on revenge that Eric has barely had the time to think about her. And it's that unwanted realization, which helps him decide: No. This isn't what Marisol would have wanted her husband and brother to do. She'd never said it, but the young woman had already _hated _the fact that her brother had to break the law in order for her to fight the cancer.

And this – what they've done – is far worse than drug possession. For the first time since this whole thing began, the dark-haired man thinks that maybe it would have been better to let the legal system, which he had always cherished being a part of, handle Riaz. Perhaps he should have stayed off his sister's case entirely.

The youngest Delko opens his eyes. The coal orbs slide over once more to his brother-in-law (former brother-in-law? he wonders), whose own icy eyes remain fixed on his hands. Eric says nothing, but he's beginning to think that Horatio has come to the same conclusion.

They shouldn't have done this.

But out of the corner of his eyes, Eric sees the briefest of glints. The sunshine is beating down on the airplane, the light bouncing off the wing brightly, and the emptiness Eric has been feeling seems to widen, deepen into a cavern of unbearable guilt.

He stares at the way the bluish-white light reflects and refracts into a blinding flash. It's identical, he thinks, to the one he saw _that_ day. And he screws his eyes shut once more, not wanting to face the truth.

If he had been doing what he should have been doing, Eric would have known the flash was sunlight hitting gun metal. Had he not been so concerned with unbalanced Gloria and his usual lady drama, he could have saved her.

But his head was so far up his ass… he had shirked his duties. After all, hadn't his whole approval of Horatio and Marisol's relationship come from the desire to _not _take care of her? And this obsessive need to care for her – that had been born solely out of his inexcusable childhood hatred of his own sister.

Eric thinks that he's finally gotten what he wanted when he was a kid. He is, after all these years, the Mari-free, gun-toting cop, but it's meaningless. Decades of hard work, but he feels like he's achieved nothing at all.

* * *

**Alexx**

Four more sick days used. That's three more than she has ever taken, but… it's not enough. And without an end in sight, Alexx isn't sure what will be enough. The ME doesn't know when she'll feel the pull to go back to work.

It's funny to her – that what started out as a job she considered beneath her abilities became her passion. She's not sure when it went from just a job to something else. And it feels oddly appropriate that her career as a medical examiner has been seemingly book-ended with death.

She can't forget – will never forget – those two life-altering cases, the most recent only days old. Alexx was young with the first. Young but a dedicated resident, nonetheless, and being from a family where she usually took charge, she had no clue that anyone might see her as an insufferable know-it-all. Perhaps opinionated, she'd conceded then, but apparently the doctors in charge had felt that it was more than spunk.

And it had been hard to hear that, but she wanted to help people – wanted to be a doctor and so she kept her glossless lips shut when she saw the mistake in the chart. The error that ended her career with living patients. The problem blamed on her, all resulting in death.

Alexx hadn't wanted to be an ME then, and a decade later, she's back to square one. With no resolution in sight. And she begins to wonder if it was ever worth it. If she'd ever helped anyone at all.

_End 4/5_


	5. Recreate

Author's Notes: This fic came to me wholly realized one day back in October, and from that moment on, I've really tried to give the concept justice. I hope that I've succeeded in that respect and that you've, at least, enjoyed watching me try to do just that. A big thanks to Cillian Chase, Rainbow Stevie, Mtwapa, Nadya, Speedfanatic05, Kate, and Funky in Fishnet for leaving feedback. It definitely pushed me to get this thing done quickly – and inspired me to do it as well as I know how.

A ginormous THANK YOU to my beta, Olly, for being my saving grace. Thank you for encouraging me to do this. Thank you for reading through this entire thing and adding words and wows and just being the best beta and friend a person could have. Your writing inspires me – you inspire me. Thank you.

Please note that I have left the dates on Marisol's grave the same as on the show. Which means the same paradox (she's said to be older yet her birthday makes her younger than Eric) on the show exists in this fic. Hopefully this fact won't hinder your enjoyment of this chapter, hehe.

**Disclaimer: I don't own it so suing would be mean.**

* * *

**Castaway Dreams**

**Section Five: Recreate**

_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Well, let's break down the word, shall we? Recreate. To create again. Begin again. To start over… Recreation isn't about relaxing. It's about re-defining… whatever's become undefined." -- Barbara Hall_

* * *

**Horatio  
**

His pale hands clench at his side, the knuckles taking on an abnormally white hue. With his palms covered in a thin sheet of sweat, to say Horatio is nervous would be an understatement. He is _terrified, _more like. If his face weren't lined with age, if his red hair weren't settling into a dull rust, he'd think he was still thirteen.

That anyone can make him feel this way is irritating at best. The fact that it's his sister-in-law makes it all the more unbearable. But for all of his self-deprecation and awareness, Horatio's unable to make himself act his age – is unable to be more than a lovesick schoolboy around her. And rather than contemplate the idea that this woman has more control over his mind and body than he does, the redhead has come to accept it as a fact of life. Not in a manner dissimilar, he thinks, to a person accepting cockroaches in their apartment building.

It's a relentless feeling, one that has infiltrated (and probably always will) most aspects of his life. But today, the stakes seem much higher. And what is usually a pang in his stomach has metastasized into an insufferable pain radiating throughout his body. Assured dread coursing in every part of him, the redhead can almost taste the failure awaiting him.

He wants to throw up in her driveway, wants to run away from this – ignore it or… something. Anything to avoid the confrontation that is surely about to happen. But Horatio has also accepted that putting this off is no longer an option, will only make things worse.

Why hadn't she come to him? The question grabs hold of him, as his fists hit the wooden door. And Horatio knows that this is his last opportunity to leave unscathed. But his feet refuse to move. He can hear heels on hardwood from behind the door, and only now, after all those years on the bomb squad, does he accept that he has a death wish.

He can hear the muffled sound of metal sliding as Yelina unlocks the door, the physical barrier between them removed with a controlled jerk. Her eyes immediately rake over him, and his body unconsciously shifts under the intensity of her gaze.

Finally – "Horatio" breaks the silence. His name is said with no warmth or disgust, uttered with a detachment the redhead is familiar with. It's the same muted personality she offered after Ray died (well, after they _thought _he'd died). He hates it, and looking into her cold dark eyes, he's beginning to wonder if this is anything more than a suicide mission. Wonders if she's already too far gone…

Her arms crossover her chest, and he swallows hard.

"The boy… told me your dishwasher isn't working." It's an excuse – and a lame one at that, Horatio knows, but he's never been happier to have a cover story.

Her lips, devoid of make up, curl into the barest of smiles. The brother-in-law doesn't need to look into her eyes to know the darkness is still there. Nor does he want to see how right he is, and so his gaze never quite meets hers.

"I'm sure my son is _heartbroken_ over the loss of an appliance he's never used." The sarcasm is not lost on him, nor is the underlying suspicion.

"Still," he counters, not ready to give in just yet. "I can look at it." His blue eyes drop down to the black toolbox sitting by his feet. The redhead may have a death wish, but he's prepared.

"It's broken," Yelina says firmly, reiterating what he already knows. But the edge in her voice tells him that she believes it to be unfixable.

The CSI takes the moment to list his options. The first: he can leave, which Horatio promised Ray Junior he wouldn't do, not until this was sorted out. Unacceptable. The second: he can fight the point, but… given that his stubborn nature is probably only outdone by hers, it's a battle he doesn't think he can win.

Stay or go – he doesn't like either road, at least the way they present themselves at the moment. But leaving isn't an acceptable alternative. Regardless of how effective he's going to be, Horatio promised his nephew. And the secret Yelina has been keeping might just destroy them once and for all, but it can't be ignored any longer.

Overcome with a definite sadness, he glances at her, quite sure that he looks like a deer in headlights. It's then, finally, for whatever reason, that her eyes soften ever so slightly. The orbs are no longer a deadly onyx; the familiar colors of green and amber flit around her pupils.

An "all right" slips out in a sigh as she moves away from the door. A small concession, sure, but Horatio takes what he can get.

Since Yelina bought the house, the brother-in-law has only been inside a handful of times. It's another reminder of how distant this family has become. But even still, there is a wonderful familiarity he already associates with the home. Brilliant shades of coral and cream decorate the various rooms wall to wall. The overall look could be gaudy if uncontrolled, but, under the Colombian's careful eye, the plethora of jeweled earth tones provides warmth to the entire space.

A kindness that the homeowner at present seems incapable of, he thinks, as she mechanically shuts the door behind him and shoots him a glare. The truth is obvious to him: he is wearing on her patience, and so obediently, the redhead walks to the kitchen.

On the stove is a pot shaking from heat. She's obviously cooking something – the scent is familiar to him, though right now, he's too preoccupied with the way Yelina is staring at him to figure out what it is. And it goes without saying that Horatio is too cowed to ask.

"Well?" She demands, interrupting his thoughts. And quickly, he plunks the metal tool kit and his thin body onto the ceramic floor tiles.

In his head, when he originally thought of this plan, he had decided that right about now would be the point where he came clean. But now, in the actual moment, the task seems too daunting, and so he blindly looks at the broken dishwasher. His brow furrows in concentration, unsure of how to fix the white appliance.

"You do know what you're doing, yes?"

His blue eyes snap back to her, and he moves his tongue uncharacteristically along his teeth, chewing on a possible answer. Finally… "I'll be fine" is his choice.

"Did I miss something? Last time I checked repair wasn't one of your skills," she says tartly.

"I'm a bomb expert." Machines are machines, after all.

"That's my point, Horatio. And I really have no desire to take you to the emergency room."

She looks as though she wants to say more, but doesn't, and so, the redhead shrugs off her concern, such as it is. Opening his tool kit, he takes out a wrench, clueless as to how to fix the problems at hand. But the small movement seems to satisfy his sister-in-law, as she begins to bustle about the kitchen.

He sits silently, pretending to do his work. Every so often, he glances at her, watches as she calmly grabs some vegetables from the refrigerator. And it's then that Horatio is finally fed up enough with his own cowardly behavior. It's time. Even though there are no words, it is time.

Reaching into the toolbox once more, he deftly snatches the proverbial smoking gun in his hand and stands up.

"Ray came to me," he starts, breaking the silence. His voice betrays his nerves, the tones wavering ever so slightly. And she stops washing the jalapenos in her soft hands to turn and look at him. Her eyes are both guarded and open – a curious mixture, the redhead thinks. By now, his sister-in-law has surely taken note of his uncharacteristic behavior, has figured out that something is wrong.

"Stopped by the lab… two days ago," Horatio clarifies. "He was upset."

An eyebrow cocks in confusion. "Yes?"

"He found this," and that's all Horatio can say, as he hands her the wrinkled medical bill. He's confronting her, yes, but he also knows that pushing her too far will only result in disaster (and possibly a trip to the hospital).

Her curls bounce as she snatches the paper, her eyes shining in recognition and then disbelief. "But…" Her voice trails off. She tries again, taking a deep breath – "I…"

And then more silence. Words have obviously failed her, not that he can fault her for that, and so he tries to press on.

"He thought you'd… had an abortion."

At the last words, she jerks back slightly as though she had been hit. But she doesn't give into the emotions surfacing in her eyes. Only a hand grips the countertop.

"And you?" she asks. "Do you think so little of me as well?"

He takes a small step closer to her, his eyes bright with sorrow, but she doesn't look at him. Her gaze is on the floor. Another step closer to her, and he crouches just a little so that he is in her line of sight.

"No." Firm and unyielding. The truth – he knows – conveyed in one simple word. Yet, she bristles at it anyway, shuffles on her feet. "No. Never," he says again.

Giving him a sad smile, Yelina awkwardly steps around him with a wide berth. As she takes a seat at the kitchen table, he wonders (before grabbing a chair himself) when they switched places. When she became the one in hiding, the one in denial, and he the pursuer, the seeker, the light in the dark.

"I suppose…" her stilted voice cuts across his thoughts. "I suppose you want to know why I didn't tell you."

Perhaps if it were anyone else, Horatio might have responded to the understatement sarcastically. That he wants to know is a given. It's all he's thought about for the past two days. He's obsessed over every last detail – over what could have gone wrong, over what he could have done, over how he should have known. But he says nothing to her, knowing that demanding answers won't make any of it easier.

He looks over at her, instead, and offers her a sheepish glance. Another sad smile is made just for him, and she continues, "I wasn't going to tell you."

It's a painful admittance, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from talking.

"You had the right, I know," she consoles him. "But I…" Her voice dies out, and her tongue quickly licks her lips before Yelina tries again. "I… didn't know how. What words are there to say –"

Pain flashes in the hazel orbs, and the adults sit in silence, listening to the sounds of the rattling pot on the stove. Eventually, the brunette pushes a stray curl out of her face and continues. "I waited too late to tell you I was pregnant and then… What would have been the point in telling you or Ray? Hmm? What good would that have done anybody?"

Horatio can feel his cheeks flush with anger. He deserved to know, he thinks. Perhaps nothing would have changed, but… after a minute, he finds his voice. "I could have –"

But his thoughts are cut short by her words.

"Do. Not." Her eyes are a deadly black. "Do _not _sit there and entertain your guilt complex, Horatio, with all that you could have done." And then, as an afterthought, "it wouldn't have mattered."

He frowns, feels properly chastised. Yet, the harshness of her words is unable to stop the niggling in the back of his mind. He should have done something. _Anything. _The older man looks down at his hands, cannot speak, the bitter taste of guilt too hard to bear. The wooden chair creaks underneath him, as he shifts in his seat.

When he finally does return his gaze to her, she mirrors his frown, crosses her bare arms over her chest.

"You obviously don't agree," Yelina says. "So tell me: in your mind, what would you have done?"

"I…" But he has no answers, no plan of attack. Nothing. And the redhead bows his head in shame because he believes that he should have the answer, should be able to give her something.

Her heels click on the tiled floor as she walks over to him. His sister-in-law kneels down on the floor, takes one of his cool, rough hands in hers, and Horatio can't help but look at her.

"Listen to me," she says gently. "This is not your fault. Nor mine. There's nothing you or I could have done or should have done." Her thin fingers squeeze around his hand. "It's not our fault."

She says it with such conviction that Horatio has no choice but to believe her, cannot find it within him to fight her on this.

Finally, the brother-in-law says, his voice low and raspy with emotion, "I could have been there for you." Admittedly, it's not much, his presence having lost its potency long ago, he thinks. But despite that, he could have been there. It's a fact, one that seemingly accentuates the gulf between them. One that reflects how much time has taken from them.

And her response is so soft that he has to strain to hear her – "You're here now." The words, quiet and gentle, are a balm to his weary soul, are nothing less than the promise of his own redemption. His hand moves in hers, clasps onto the delicate skin.

When she first returned from Rio, Horatio had said that what was left in Miami was family. And it seems now to be truer than ever. Their worlds have changed, entirely, irreparably. All around them the death of their loved ones, but they are no longer alone. In this moment, time stands still, only to rewind and move forward once more. They have been apart but no longer, and in their contact, the fractures begin to repair until they are whole again.

Until they are one.

* * *

**Calleigh**

The first real thing you learn in the police business, Calleigh thinks, is that it's a job that cannot be done without the absolute trust in the people you work with. Any situation can turn ugly, and when staring down the barrel of a gun, knowing that there's someone else in the room wanting your well being is a blessing. And it's for this reason that the blonde_ hates_ newbies; they make her nervous.

After years of working together, the bond she has with Horatio and Eric is obvious. The CSI trusts them both with every aspect of this job and then some. With Ryan, though she knows he's done some terrible things, Calleigh is beginning to develop that implicit confidence. But of all her co-workers, that the blonde trusts Natalia Boa Vista is surprising, to say the least.

Half the lab still wants to kill the brunette for being the mole, and Calleigh doesn't really understand how she can look past it. But she does… Maybe it's just simply nice to have another woman on the team, a rarity in this field. Perhaps the ballistics expert could empathize with Boa Vista's desire to do good (only to have it all work out for the worst). God only knows both their lives could serve as a cautionary tale for fellow do-gooders.

For whatever reason, there had always been a basic friendship between the women. And then, the ex-husband had showed up today, cementing the ladies' bond.

Within hours, everyone in the lab had heard about Nick one way or the other. Rumors of past abuse swirled everywhere, and though everyone should have known better, some whispered that, based on Natalia's house and expensive tastes, the marriage couldn't have been that bad.

Calleigh was not of that belief, having recognized the fear, the shame… the similar mask of strength. Though the circumstances were different, the blonde understood. Out of kindness, the southerner approached the newest CSI.

But it's not until work ends and Calleigh is about to leave that Natalia takes the proffered outlet. When the blonde enters the locker room, the other woman is there, but doesn't look up or acknowledge her presence. And so the older CSI follows her lead, opens her locker silently to grab her purse. Finally –

"What you did for me today… I mean just asking if I was okay… Thanks," Natalia says meekly.

The blonde shrugs her shoulders, gives the other woman a smile. "Sure."

Boa Vista rubs the palms of her hands against her black slacks. "I've been working here a while now, and I don't know how many times someone's brought up your dad or your ex-boyfriend –" She cuts herself off, and Calleigh is thankful for that. "It just… never occurred to me to see how you were doing."

Once more the blonde shrugs, closing her locker. She's come to accept that there are about three people she can depend on for anything – all of whom work in this building. She's learned that trust is a gift few people deserve, and normally Calleigh wouldn't think much of the half apology.

But looking at the younger woman, the ballistics expert understands: Natalia has learned the same painful lesson. Both have seen the horrors of human nature, have known what it's like to be afraid of someone you love. They understand what it means to fear someone whose job is to love, respect, and protect you. They've learned to keep their thoughts to themselves.

And though neither woman utters it, they both know what the other has experienced, get that they are similar. Green eyes meet brown ones, and the connection is firmly made.

"It's okay," Calleigh says, and with those words, out of their tormented pasts, the two women are friends.

* * *

**Speedle**

He once read that, in ancient Rome, after the appropriate mourning period, a dead person's house was swept to get rid of the deceased's ghost. At the time, Ryan thought his OCD cost him his job. But after reading that tidbit, he thinks being hired under those circumstances was appropriate.

That said, the CSI hadn't felt less welcome. They resented him for not being Speedle, and Ryan didn't help matters by acting entitled, superior. And for a year, the team lived on this horrible cycle. The more he tried to prove himself, the more they hated him, believing he was just being cocky; their dislike only served to be more motivation for the brown-haired man to be perfect.

If he weren't so egotistical, he would have, Ryan knows, quit a long time ago. And so, at some point he had accepted that he'd never fit in. He would always be the newbie, the competition, the odd man out, the outsider, etc. Nothing more than "Mr. Wolfe."

Yet he couldn't have ever anticipated the team's response to his injured eye and everything afterwards. They were supportive, helpful, and sympathetic in the months that followed the shooting – something he had long believed impossible (at least, in their treatment of _him_). Ryan had seen all of these qualities in his colleagues before, but this was the first time he had been on the receiving end of their better graces.

Eric had practically kept him alive driving him to the hospital. Calleigh was more forgiving of his mistakes. And, perhaps most surprisingly, Alexx and Horatio had broken the _law _to shield him from IAB, to defend him.

Even now, months later, Ryan's still not sure why things changed. Perhaps it was because he had finally learned, in a trial by fire manner, that being a good CSI didn't mean being perfect. Maybe the rest of the team had come to accept this new person in the mix. Perhaps they were finally beyond expecting Speedle to come walking through the door. By accepting that the old CSI was dead, they had learned to open their hearts and accept this former patrol cop.

Whatever the reason, now Ryan knows that when he enters the building, they trust, respect, and most importantly, _like _him. The young man finally understands that the cycle has been broken and that they can all begin again.

* * *

**Yelina**

Even though only three days have passed since Horatio showed up on her doorstep, Yelina is sure she has recalled the events of that encounter thousands of times. Each second, each word replays in her mind – Horatio's timidity, her anger, and the resulting revelations.

She feels guilty, perhaps as he does, that they have spent so much time apart, ignoring one another. If their family has been crumbling, their actions haven't helped matters. Nor does it help, the brunette thinks, that she lied to her brother-in-law three days ago.

Well maybe not… _lied_, her mind counters. Yelina had told the truth when she said that the words hadn't come to her. The Colombian knows she didn't really know how to tell him about her pregnancy, much less the… not being pregnant anymore. Her hand rakes through her curls, tugging slightly as she tucks a stray lock behind her ear.

No, she hadn't lied about that. Language had been of no use, is still completely inadequate to express what her body feels, knows, to be true.

But Yelina _had _omitted the part where she was afraid to tell Horatio for entirely selfish reasons; she never wanted to see him reject her. God had given her a perfect little gift, and she was terrified that her brother-in-law would look at her and finally lose interest, having figured out that she loved Ray. That she had been too weak to push him away completely.

The brunette feels bad for leaving that part out, the part of her that feels tainted, that makes her want to bathe in boric acid and scrub till the water turns red. She feels guilty because it's proof that as much as Yelina trusts him…

She has faith in Horatio like she hasn't in anyone else, but even then, there are some things best kept secret.

Of course, three days ago, the look in his eyes… the blue orbs so open and loving, it had been impossible to imagine him rejecting her for this (or anything else). At first, Yelina believed that she had imagined the look, had merely wanted to believe he would look at her that way. But after days of analyzing and re-analyzing, she knows it wasn't make believe.

And maybe… it meant that she didn't need to reveal that part of herself to him or anyone else.

She imagines herself burying that truth somewhere in the back of her mind. But one thing Yelina will no longer ignore, will no longer hide is the feeling that Ray Junior is hiding something.

He had been sneaky for months, but in the past few days, her son has been even more secretive than usual. And it's upsetting, to say the least, to know that something isn't right, and yet, not have any idea of how to make it better, to fix whatever is going on. This past year has nearly destroyed her relationship with her child, and Yelina will never forgive herself for it, she thinks.

There is only one thing to do: talk to him. Snooping around his room is an option she doesn't wish to take. Because as horrible as it's been with her son, the mother needs to know if her child will open up to her, needs to see how badly their bond has been damaged.

Of course, that's easier said than done. She is naturally afraid of what might be wrong, but there's more to it than that. Ray hardly comes home these days, and when he's here, she usually isn't (or she's asleep), the only proof of his presence an unmade bed or a piece of half-eaten toast. Yelina will talk to him, she's decided, but she has to wait for him to be around in order to do that.

And in the end, it's Ray Junior who approaches her first. She'd wanted to stay awake for when he did come home, but the stress of the last few days had gotten to the brunette, and she'd fallen asleep.

Hours later, the sound of something falling in her bathroom wakes her up. Dazed, her first instinct is to grab her gun. She reaches down along the side of the bed till her manicured fingertips hit the carpet. Sliding her hand under the bed, Yelina blindly snatches the box, which holds her weapon.

But she pauses as the bathroom door is opened, light filtering into the bedroom. Through her bleary eyes, she can make out her son's outline, newly lanky body with that mop of black curls.

She's not sure what he's doing, only knows that it's late, and being so close to the precipice of sleep, Yelina rolls over and closes her eyes.

Not even a minute has passed when his "Mom?" breaks through the silence. His voice is tentative, worried. "Mom," he says again, and she rolls over once more, sits up slightly. "I think…" he begins slowly. "I think I need your help."

And with proverbial warning bells going off, it's enough to get her out of bed. Her feet stumble on the carpet as she walks towards Ray. Lazily, she pushes her hair out of her face.

"What's wrong?" He doesn't immediately respond, only to eventually step back into the lit bathroom and sit on the toilet seat; the sight is enough to make her feel like her heart has stopped. His bottom lip is unnaturally thick, swollen, oozing… and _pierced. _"What happened?" Her voice is weary.

Yelina takes a step forward, raises her hand. Lightly she runs a fingertip along the tormented flesh.

"Some guys and I did it a few days ago. It was fine until yesterday – I swear."

Her response to the lie is a frown. And then, "it'll have to come out." With both hands, the mother carefully begins to undo the small black ball holding the silver ring in place. It's impossible to miss the pain in his brown eyes, but she knows it can't be helped. And though she's trying as hard as she can to not hurt him, Ray still pulls back in pain when her thumb slips.

"Ouch!"

"Sit still." Her voice is harsh, even to her ears, but she's not in the mood (especially at two a.m.) to comfort him. Without another word, Yelina returns to her task.

But despite the warning in her voice, Ray still tries to fight her. "Oww! Stop!" He pulls away from her and rubs his face. "I only wanted you to help me clean it! Jesus, just because _you_ don't like it doesn't mean it has to come out. I'm not a little kid you can boss around anymore."

She drops her hands to her side. The last thing the exhausted mother wants is a fight, and Yelina works hard to pick her words carefully. Quietly, slowly – "Raymond… I would be lying if I said that I liked this. But, at the moment, that is _not _my concern. Honey – it's infected; it has to come out."

"No! You're just saying that cause you're mad."

Her teeth bite down on her lower lip. She's never quite realized it until now, but out of all the qualities he could inherit from his parents… somehow her child has the infuriating combination of her stubbornness and her husband's stupidity.

"Listen to me, all right?" She tucks a dark curl behind her ear. "You went and pierced your lip. Fine. I already said I didn't like it, which is, frankly, the reason you probably did it. But I can live with that." Her tongue runs along her teeth for a moment, as she struggles to find the right words. "I can accept that," she reiterates. "What I cannot accept – what I will _never _accept, child – is you being hurt and not coming to me. The idea of you… _my son_ being hurt is enough to make me lose. my. mind."

He looks away briefly, and eventually, Yelina is able to remove the silver hoop. Her fingers hold it up to his eye level so he can see. "You say you're not a child." She tosses the ring into the wastebasket near by. "An adult isn't afraid to ask for help; a _man _doesn't hide when he's hurt."

The surly teenager stands up, and it's then that she realizes how tall he is. Ray's almost the same size these days.

"Oh really?" he asks, his voice filled with sarcasm. "Is that what a grown up does? I wouldn't know, given the 'adults' I'm around. I mean there's Dad with his fake deaths and his drug problems, and Horatio who acts like a fucking pod person these days. And then there's you! What kind of grown up are you? You walk around here like – like _nothing's _happened! And you're carrying around this huge secret and don't tell anyone!"

It's impossible to ignore the anger and hatred coming from him, filling the room until Yelina thinks there's no untainted air to breathe. She feels as though she's been slapped in the face. And given how he obviously, undeniably thinks of her, she'd rather he be violent.

The Colombian knows that this is one of those times where if she says the wrong thing… there will be no more chances for her. She could get mad, could yell at him or ground him for saying any one of those things, but… that would make the situation far worse, and it's not in her, and an "I'm sorry" slips out before she has a chance to anything else.

"You're right. And whether you believe it or not," she says. "I am sorry. I should have told you about it all."

"Yeah, you should have," he agrees rather snottily.

"I know… But after everything we've been through, I didn't know how to tell you." He opens his mouth to comment, but she silences him by continuing, "It's not a very good reason, right? I know. But you've been so… mad at me lately that I was afraid of how you would take the news."

"I would have handled it fine."

"Really?" she snaps back. "How many teenagers do you know, Ray, who are interested in having a new sibling?" He looks away. "Listen to me: I should have told you. That I was pregnant, that I lost the baby – everything."

"Yeah."

"And I would love it if some day you could forgive me for that… and for all the other mistakes I've made and ways I've failed you. I really hope you can eventually because… almost everyone else in our family is gone and… I love you, Raymond." She turns to walk out the door but pauses. "I just hope one day that will be enough for you." And then as an afterthought, "you should put alcohol on that, all right?"

Without another word, she leaves, stumbling back to bed. The conversation has left her exhausted. The brunette crawls under the coral linens and closes her eyes.

But not more than five minutes pass before the bathroom door is opened, and once more, his voice fills the room.

"Te quiero, Mama."

The three words – I love you – uttered in her native tongue have always left her breathless. Yelina has never understood why this is, but the effect is the same each time. And, though he says nothing else, the mother _knows_ in her marrow that the phrase is given to her, meant for her - a gift of forgiveness, of apology. I love you whispered in the dark of night – a beacon of hope.

And even though Ray is back in his bedroom by the time she replies, "Te quiero con toda mi alma," she knows that the sentiment has reached him. That somehow he has finally heard her.

She closes her eyes once more, but this time when Yelina falls asleep, her full lips are firmly upturned in a smile. In the end, despite the death and violence around them, they know they still have each other, the bond between them still there.

And finally, dawn comes.

* * *

**Eric**

He visits her grave often, has been spending more time standing on the worn patch of grass since he's been shot.

Each time, his dark eyes scan the black engraved letters over and over again, hoping for some understanding – wanting the question why to be finally answered.

Marisol Delko Caine. 1978. 2006.

A mantra etched into the deepest recesses of his being.

Yet no matter how many times he reads the three familiar words, the answer remains ever elusive, slipping through his fingers. Marisol Delko Caine over and over, but Eric is only greeted with silence.

If he were honest with himself, the CSI would admit that he usually leaves this place more dejected than when he came. But he is unable to break the cycle nor does he want to. Because the very moment he starts to move on, it will be the time, Eric thinks, that he starts to forget his big sister.

And when that happens, then she will become nothing more than a number – one of Riaz's many victims. Her essence will become limited to this tiny patch of worn grass with a headstone and a few wilted flowers. Then she will be merely a name with a beginning and an ending. His sister deserves better.

Watching her slip away into distant memory and eventual nothingness is not an option. It will never be one.

His visits are regular, perfectly timed for almost guaranteed privacy. The CSI waits till the graveyard is about to close. Each time, the sun hangs low in the sky, a heavy bed of reds and orange. Her grave is to the east, and Eric appreciates the feeling of the lingering warmth on his back as he faces assured death and darkness. There's a certain symbolism, a rightness, the normally scientific man feels, to it.

Today, his trek is no different. His walk is slower since he was shot – less even, and the brother treads carefully over the grassy plain to the grave he wants. Every now and then, his dark eyes glance from side to side; he is alone, but surrounded by people. Gray headstones of marble and memory are as far as he can see, and he wonders how many of them have been forgotten or have died from some sort of senseless violence. Eric wonders, but doesn't want to know the answer.

Yet, as he approaches _her, _the recovering CSI understands that he is not, in fact, alone. It surprises him – that they haven't met here before (at least when it wasn't planned). And he is tempted to leave the redhead alone, but Eric knows that if he walks away now, he'll have to wait until tomorrow to see his sister. The choice is easily made.

Horatio doesn't look up; Eric doesn't look at him either. Neither man speaks up, and Eric thinks that, just as he never talks to Marisol, his boss is probably the same way. They stand in silence, tied only by their grief, until the last of the light disappears.

And as they turn and leave her together, the dark-haired man understands instinctively. They had both lost something, but through that, a bond had been formed. Horatio had been his boss for years, a colleague and friend. They had been brothers-in-law and brothers-in-arms, but now, as they walk shoulder to shoulder away from her, they are, simply, brothers.

* * *

**Alexx**

The resignation letter feels heavy in her clutched sweaty grasp. This is it, Alexx thinks. All she has to do is walk in there, hand it in, and she can be done. She can be free of this job and the horrors that come with it.

Her gait is unsteady, and the normally confident woman stops twice on the short distance to the door to regain her composure. It's for the best, she tells herself. This has never been her dream; she'd wanted to help people live, not become entangled with criminals. She steels herself once more before going inside.

But once in the building, now surrounded by her colleagues and the people she's worked side by side with for years, Alexx finds it harder to remember why she wants out. If anything, her mind is betraying her, the first memories she has of working here floating to the surface.

She had been young and unsure, then. She'd been sure that being a medical examiner was beneath her. And she had been wrong.

Some might believe that her job had been a waste – that as the people she worked on were already dead, very little good could come from it; the work wouldn't be as satisfying. And Alexx knows that there are days like that, days where giving in is much easier than continuing. These last few weeks are the worst she's ever felt in this profession.

But doing what she does… the dark-haired woman also knows that she's helped other people, has prevented crimes from being committed. It is a fact she had forgotten, but now… the resignation letter feels even heavier.

And looking around at the people going about their business, Alexx knows the one undeniable truth about all of them is that they would protect her. That even if someone was foolish and desperate enough to put her life at risk again, her _friends_ would keep her safe. This surrogate family would do anything to make sure that she could return to her other family.

There's still risk, she knows, but Alexx has also accepted that without risk, her life would have turned out very different. She would have never dated her husband and therefore would have never had her beautiful children. And the doctor is more than aware that when she played it safe, more people had gotten hurt.

Alexx knows she can leave now and never look back. But what would that teach her children? That quitting when things get hard is okay? That never doing what you truly love because you don't want to get hurt is acceptable? Neither are lessons she wants her children to absorb.

And though going back to work scares her, though she knows she could get hurt again, there's something freeing in that knowledge. She smiles for the first time in weeks and walks to the nearest trashcan. Her strong, capable hands crush the white flag in her grasp.

She will not surrender, will not give up. Alexx is back.

* * *

_**Le fin. (5/5)**_

Translation: _Te quiero (con toda mi alma): _I love you (with all of my soul).


End file.
